


Elementary

by PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-25
Updated: 2011-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:56:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things change after Watson is attacked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elementary

**Author's Note:**

> Post-movie, incorporating book!canon events (Holmes' apparent death at Reichenbach Falls, Mary's death from tuberculosis). No major spoilers for movie. No graphic depiction of rape/non-con.
> 
> Inspired by an already-filled prompt on the Sherlock Holmes kink meme.

One benefit of my time in Afghanistan is that I have the ability, when needed, to put the unpleasantries of life out of my consciousness; to shut them up in a box, as it were.

That skill was never going to stand me in such good stead as now.

I could not afford to dwell on what had just happened. I needed to get home. I needed to get home and tend to myself before Holmes returned.

I do not remember most of that journey. I must have walked from the alley outside the club to Baker Street. I assume I comported myself with proper decorum; I was not stopped. I have a fleeting recollection of the clop of horses’ hooves; gaslights flickering on the dark, wet cobblestones... then nothing more until I stood facing the door to our flat.

The stairs were a trial and sapped what remained of my waning strength. My body seemed heavy and clumsy, and I was shivering with what felt like cold, although my medical training told me it was most likely shock.

I stumbled through the sitting room and into my consultation room, stripping off my fouled garments as I went. They would have to be burned; I was not allowing Mrs. Hudson to attempt to launder them. Even if they could be cleaned, they would serve as a reminder...

No. I could not think about that now.

Throwing on my dressing gown, I found my toiletry kit and the medical supplies I would need and made my way to the bath. While the tub filled, I assessed the damage. Nothing too serious, thankfully; mostly bruises and minor abrasions, with the exception of a deep knife-wound along my upper right arm. That would have to be sutured. Fortunately I am adept at sewing with either hand, the legacy of being a battlefield surgeon.

My hurts attended to, I sank gratefully into the steaming water and closed my eyes.

I must have dozed off, or perhaps passed out. I do not know for how long, but by the time I was awakened by Holmes’ tramp upon the stair, the water had cooled to tepid. I struggled to get out of the bath and pull myself together before his formidable curiosity was roused. Perhaps I could claim that I had witnessed an assault on my way home and had stepped in to aid the victim, only to become entangled with the attacker myself.

The door crashed open. “Good God, Holmes,” I sputtered, turning to face him, my heart knocking against my ribs, “what the devil are you doing? You’ll wake Mrs. Hudson.”

I have never seen my friend’s face bear as terrible a countenance as it did then. Chalk-white, nostrils flared, the muscles of his clenched jaw leaping wildly, his eyes boring into me like dark cinders.

My trousers were clutched in his hand.

“Who did this?” he said. In eerie contrast to his mien, his voice was perfectly level... and perfectly toneless.

My heart sank. What kind of fool had I been to think that I could fool the world’s greatest detective? I, more than any other, should have known better.

“Holmes, I am fine,” I took a step towards him, but even as I spoke, the room tilted precariously beneath me and my legs buckled. In a flash, Holmes was there, supporting me, but his hand closed around my newly-sutured wound and I winced in pain.

“Come,” he said quietly, and then he was guiding me out of the washroom, having gathered my things. Before I knew what was happening he had me seated on the couch and was examining my injury.

I could not feel my arms and legs; I felt as though I were drifting away from my body. Things did not seem quite real. I watched Holmes as he inspected my sutures minutely, a bizarre kind of manic cheerfulness threatening to bubble up from my chest. “You know,” I said to him, “I _am_ a surgeon. I do know what I’m doing.”

“Indeed,” he said. I was relieved to see that the fearsome expression on his face had vanished, to be replaced by the familiar distant gaze he bore when he was solving some particularly tenacious and vexing puzzle.

He rose and went to his chemical table, and I heard the sounds of glass clinking and liquid sloshing. “Laudanum,” he said as he returned, holding out a glass to me.

I took the glass but frowned at the concoction within. “I do not think I need—”

“Drink,” Holmes said, cutting me off. “And then bed.”

I rose, only slightly unsteady, and looked him directly in the eye. “I am a doctor, Holmes; I do not think it necessary—”

“John,” he said softly, gripping my good shoulder, “you are not in the best frame of mind to be treating anyone, let alone yourself.”

Although I was a bit taken aback by his seriousness – Holmes did not often use my given name – upon reflection I had to admit that he was right. I drank it down, grimacing at the bitter taste, and let Holmes lead me into the bedroom.

“Wait a moment,” he said, then went over and rummaged in the armoire. He returned bearing a set of green silk pajamas, which he handed to me. “A gift from a satisfied client – you remember the case, don’t you? The Oriental snuffbox? I think these will be more comfortable for you to sleep in than your flannel.”

I nodded and he helped me put them on and get into bed. They hung loose on me; although I have the advantage in height, Holmes is broader in the shoulder and hip. However, the fabric was pleasantly cool, and draped across my battered body with a feather’s weight. I tried to say thank you, but my tongue was unaccountably thick and I could not keep my eyes open. And as I sank down into a hazy sleep, I imagined I could feel a warm hand stroking my hair back from my forehead.

***

Holmes was right, as he almost always is. Sleep is restorative, and after a week I was almost completely relieved of my physical suffering. Psychological; now, that was another matter, but I knew from experience that there was nothing for that but time. So it was with a sense of the world inevitably returning to normal that we received a visit from Constable Clark that evening.

“Detective, Inspector Lestrade requests your presence immediately at the docks.”

Holmes sighed. “Of course he does. What is it about, Clarkie?”

“There’s three bodies been found, sir.”

Silence. Holmes waited, his eyes fixed on Clark.

“Well... they’ve been murdered, sir.”

I hid a smile behind the newspaper I was perusing. Holmes had an incorrigible penchant for taunting Scotland Yard, especially Lestrade, but he clearly had a soft spot for the constable. Instead of the barbs he would have thrown at the inspector, he bit his tongue and patiently waited for all the facts to emerge... if a bit more slowly than he would have liked.

“And... well, it’s a bit bizarre, sir. They all have this strange tattoo on their inner right wrist. And the one, he’s got a birthmark on his cheek, a port wine stain—”

Those words sent a chill down my spine.

“Indeed.” Holmes had leapt to his feet, cutting Clark off, and was pacing around the room, his hands clasped behind his back. “The tattoo, was it shaped....”

The roaring in my ears drowned out the sound of Holmes’ voice. My vision grayed and my hands clenched convulsively at the paper. One of the men who had attacked me had had a port wine stain on his cheek.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, as quietly as I could, and then another, trying to bring my racing heart under control. When my senses cleared, Holmes was delivering his summation.

“... sign that is associated with a particular type of Asian gang, called a tong. Clearly these men were in the employ of said tong – most likely haunting the bars and clubs of London looking for women. Young, white women fetch quite a price in the markets of Singapore and Malaysia. You said they had been drinking?” At Clark’s nod, he continued. “Most likely they were felt by their employers to have become unreliable.” He dropped down onto the couch. “I am sure, if you check the manifest of every ship leaving London for Hong Kong sometime within the next three days, you will find one that has recently hired on three new seamen.” With that, he fired up his clay pipe and puffed at it contentedly. “Oh, and, as always, give Inspector Lestrade my regards.”

“Will do, sir.” Clark touched his hat and was gone.

I could not stop myself from meeting Holmes’ eyes. He regarded me with a clear gaze, his head wreathed in the blue-grey smoke from his pipe. “You would not have pressed charges,” he said quietly, never taking his eyes from my face.

“No, of course not, but Holmes, for God’s sake....” I let the paper fall and put my head in my hands; my emotions overpowered me and I could not continue. On the one hand, there was relief that another would not fall prey to these men. Relief... and, although it was painful for me to acknowledge, satisfaction. Satisfaction that they had paid for what they did. But equally strong was my horror at the burden my friend had taken on for me.

I looked up at a touch on my arm. Holmes had come over and was crouched down in front of me, his eyes level with mine. “It was justice, old boy. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“But...” I stammered, “your immortal soul, man.”

Holmes gave a derisive snort. “If – and note that I said _if_ \- there is a Creator, and _if_ he ever comes to hold me accountable for my actions in this life, rest assured that this will be the least of the things he judges me on.”

“How... how did you know all that, anyway?” I asked, my mind still in a whirl. “That the men were employed by a tong, that they were engaged on a ship... everything you said to Clark.”

“I know because I put the tattoos there myself,” Holmes replied easily. “And I have no reason to believe that they were hired as sailors, but desertions are quite common among the trade ships that dock at our fine port, and nearly every ship hires on new men at London. The length of the list alone will keep Lestrade busy for days.” At my astonished glance, he shrugged. “You cannot think that I would leave a trail that led back to me. I did hope that Lestrade could read the clues by himself, however. I made them clear enough. The man has learned nothing, nothing at all; in all the years I have worked with him, none of my methods have rubbed off on him.”

He gave my knee a pat, then rose. “Come, enough talk. I think we need some music now,” and reached for his violin.

***

I do not know if it was Holmes’ confession, or simply the return to the familiar routine of catching miscreants, but that night, I dreamed.

 _A blow to the back of my head. Disorientation, sudden nausea. Dark figures, gripping my arms, pushing me into the dark alley, shoving me up against the wall. Brick, cold and rough against my cheek. Trying to fight back, but no leverage. Head spinning. Hands at my waist, pulling at my trousers..._

“Watson?... Watson!” The sound of my name shouted in my ear woke me from the phantasm that had gripped me. I was gasping for breath and my heart thundered in my chest as if I had just run the length of the city and back. My hands were cold and shaking and my nightshirt was damp with sweat.

The source of the voice that had woken me was Holmes. He was sitting on the side of the bed, brows knit by a look of concern. “You were dreaming,” he said.

I made some kind of affirmative noise and pushed myself to sit upright, my heart still racing. Holmes rose with alacrity and went out into the sitting room, returning shortly with a snifter of brandy, which he handed to me. “Steady,” he murmured; his hands, warm and chapped, folded over mine as they cupped the glass.

The fiery heat of the liquor thawed my limbs and cleared my head. I took a deep breath, letting the images and the feelings of the dream dissipate, willing them out of my head.

Holmes had retreated to sit on the end of the bed, his back resting against one of the posts. Arms crossed, he surveyed me with one eyebrow raised questioningly.

I shook my head, anticipating his query. “It is better not to talk of dreams, Holmes,” I said. “Heed them and you only give them power.”

He glanced away. “Is that why you have never shared your... inclinations with me?”

I sighed and let my head drop back against the headboard. This was not a conversation I had ever wanted to have with Holmes. But I was tired, and the dream had frayed my ability to guard my tongue.

“It... it was not out of any intent to mislead you,” I said, reluctantly. “But when I returned to England, after I had recuperated from my injuries, I – I thought I wanted a normal life. I was weary of blood and chaos and war. I desired nothing more than to have a simple practice, get married, perhaps raise a family. And that meant putting aside some of my habits and pastimes, and cultivating others.”

“Ah,” Holmes said briskly. “And, enter Mary.”

“And enter Mary,” I agreed. I plucked at the brocaded spread contemplatively, then raised my head to look at him. “Except that I was wrong, and you were right. I did miss the adrenaline, the excitement.” The corner of my mouth quirked up at the memory of our argument in the gaol yard. “I missed our rooms, our dog, our life. I missed you.”

Holmes said nothing. The lamp had burned low and his features were in shadow.

“I don’t know what would have happened – most likely I would have gone on, dissatisfied. What else could I do? But then... you went over the falls at Reichenbach.” I took a swallow of the brandy, hoping the burn would ease the tightness in my throat. “I knew it was my fault, of course. If I had been with you, watching your back, where I was supposed to be, it wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t have let it.”

I exhaled and rubbed my hand wearily down my face. “So. I had what I wanted. A normal, quiet life. No chance of adventures anymore, no puzzles to be solved, no crime to be thwarted. Then Mary got sick.”

“That was not your fault, old boy,” Holmes said softly.

“Oh, but it was,” I replied grimly. “We should have left London. We should have gone to the country – the climate was better there. She might have recovered; she certainly would have lived longer.”

“You don’t know—“

“But I couldn’t,” I cut Holmes off ruthlessly. It felt akin to lancing a boil; once opened, I had to continue until all the sickness and putrefaction inside of me had been expelled. “I couldn’t leave London. Because I couldn’t leave _you_ – the memory of you. Our usual haunts, the places we’d been, the cases we’d solved. Every stone, every brick, every log in this damned city reminded me of you, and I could not bear to leave. So she died.”

“John....” Holmes murmured.

It was impossible for me to stop. “And I... I had killed the two people I loved most in this world. There didn’t seem to be much point in pursuing a _normal_ life after that.” My voice rang harshly in my ears, and I drained the brandy in one gulp.

Silence. “And then I came back to life, as it were,” Holmes said. “And here we are.”

“Here we are,” I conceded. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back again. I was tired, but oddly light, as if I’d somehow released a physical weight along with my words. My body felt like a husk, filled with air.

“I am, as you must admit,” Holmes said, after a while, “abysmally ineffective at the polite forms of discourse that grease the wheels of social interaction.”

One corner of my mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Quite true,” I replied.

“And yet I hope that that trait of mine has not occluded your perception of the esteem in which I hold you. I value your company beyond price.”

I could not resist needling him. “Even more than the lovely Miss Adler’s?”

Holmes cleared his throat. “Miss Adler is quite charming... and vexingly clever. But my affections have ever been for one person alone.”

My eyes snapped open and I turned my head to look at him, stunned to silence. Was Holmes saying what I thought he was? Although I knew that Holmes valued me as a companion and brother-in-arms, I had not ever imagined – had not dared to hope – that his feelings for me ran deeper than that.

He gazed back at me, and the depth of emotion I could read in his dark eyes made my heart leap.

We must have watched each other for a full minute. Then Holmes stood. “It is late,” he began, and I realized that he had read my silence as disapproval.

“Stay.” I reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Please.”

He hesitated, and I could see the muscles of his throat work as he swallowed. “I feel duty-bound to inform you that I am a rank tyro in these matters, my dear. I fear you may be disappointed.”

Hiding a smile, I tugged him gently back onto the bed. “I have no expectations,” I assured him. It was a novel experience, to feel superior to Holmes in something. I did not think it would last long.

And I was correct. Holmes is nothing if not a quick study.

Much, much later, when we had succumbed to sleep’s embrace, I was beset by the images of my dream again, dark and frightening. But then Holmes’ voice sounded in my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “Go back to sleep, old boy. It is only a dream.”

And I did.


End file.
